two layers skin deep
by DrMeh
Summary: Above everything, Lavender Brown loves beauty. She loves it in others, but mostly she loves it in herself.


**a/n**: I think I rewrote this as many times as it has words. Please enjoy my take on Lavender Brown, a character I never really thought about until a small, almost throwaway line in Deathly Hallows. I don't own Harry Potter, do not steal my writing, and reviews are lovely.

* * *

_Love is a good beautician._

Gina - Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amélie Poulain

* * *

Above everything, Lavender Brown loves beauty. She loves it in others, but mostly she loves it in herself.

* * *

I.

"You're beautiful," Ron tells her one night with his long arms wrapped around her. She turns her head away and that makes him frown, but she can't let him see the idiotic grin spreading across her face (she has this thing about letting people seeing only what she wants them to).

"What's wrong?" he asks, his breath whispering over her hair.

"It's nothing," she says and giggles a bit, something she hates doing but ends up doing it anyway because nothing makes her happier than when he compliments her on how she looks.

She glances down at her perfectly manicured nails, thinks of all the time spent on learning makeup spells and hair care potions, and so misses the longing look Ron sends towards a girl buried in books opposite the common room.

She only remembers Trelawney's warning against a red-haired man after he leaves her for Hermione Granger, who's about as anti-Lavender as womanly possible. Fleetingly, she wonders if maybe she should switch reading material to the brainy stuff, what her mother always referred to as male repellant.

She brings this up with Parvati, who drops her quill at the half-joking words.

"Lav, honey…" Parvati bites her lip and reaches for Lavender's (trembling) hands. "You don't need to change for that jerk! You're beautiful, you know it!"

Lavender blinks back tears at the reassurance, and tries to ignore that it doesn't make her smile like it did a day ago. Parvati, like the best friend (sister) that she is, seems to sense this and gives her a kind smile.

"Come on," she says, tugging a blotchy-faced Lavender to her feet. "You won't feel any better if I let you mope like this any longer." Thus said, she drags Lavender to the kitchens for a healthy crying/doubt/anger/self-evaluation session over tubs of chocolate ice cream, despite the fact that neither of them have any makeup on.

It was worth it though, she thinks, as she sits at her vanity the next day. She lays her palms flat against the cool glass of her mirror and examines herself closely. There's a blemish below her left eye, but otherwise healthy skin, too pale- she makes a note to look up that tanning spell Parvati had been talking about; slightly irregular lips she'd inherited from her father that she's tried to hide with carefully drawn lipstick ever since her mother exclaimed bitterly how much she hated his lips; thin lashes framing slightly angular eyes that are a frail, icy blue; and a shock of blonde hair that after years of careful cultivation now reaches her waist.

It is, she decides, an easily malleable face. It takes a little work but fifteen brisk minutes later, she molds it into something unforgettable, beautiful. Something that doesn't look like it's been crying, a voice whispers in her mind. She brushes the thought away and smiles at her reflection. She's perfect in all the ways that matter to her, and it's the best feeling in the world.

* * *

II.

It's the worst feeling in the world, she decides later as she stares into the mirror brought to her by a trembling Parvati. She's been in St. Mungo's for several weeks after that terrifying battle, in the same ward that Ron's father had been in when he'd been injured a few years ago. Ron tells her this in an attempt to cheer her up- it doesn't, but Ron was never one for tact anyway.

It's taken several weeks, but she finally manages to muster the Gryffindor bravery to look in the mirror, and suddenly she doesn't feel very Gryffindor anymore.

She lets the thin hospital gown slide to the floor, stares at her body now mottled with hideous purple scars. The mirror feels warm when she touches it, tracing the raised scar tissue's image, and she realizes it is because she's coldcoldasice. The hand in the mirror shakes. She can't stop looking, though, because there's this girl staring back at her who barely looks human, but she has Lavender's eyes, so is that her?

"Lavender," Parvati whispers, vanishing the mirror with a shaky wave of her wand. "It's alright, we're here for you, nobody will care." She wraps her arms around Lavender and they both weep, because they know that _it's not, they're not, and they will._

Her life seems to fall from her hands after that. Ginny Weasley visits her one day and tells her to talk to her brother Bill.

"Maybe he can help," she suggests, looking Lavender straight in the eye. Lavender appreciates this, so she nods and hugs Ginny goodbye. Maybe talking to Bill would help.

They were both attractive before they were defaced. Maybe he can tell her how to feel like she hasn't been utterly destroyed.

So she goes to Shell Cottage, but she finds out that Bill has a very different view of things when she tells him how she feels.

He frowns at her over a cup of tea. "I don't understand why you feel like this is such a bad thing," he says.

Lavender's hands (minus two fingers) twist themselves in distress. "It's just… I used to be pretty. That's the worst thing. I was pretty and now I'm this, and everyone knows it, I can't stand how they look at me anymore." It sounds petty even to her own ears, but she's going out on a limb here and being honest, and she can't help it if her feelings are less than noble.

"How do they look at you, Lavender?"

_What a stupid question, _she thinks. Out loud, she says, "Most of them don't even look at me anymore. They're scared to, they see me there and they automatically turn their eyes. Sometimes they just stare at my scars. It-it's disgusting." Her voice shakes.

She finds no sympathy in him. "When people look at you, Lavender, they see the scars. And they think that by taking these scars as your own, you saved them from suffering the same. That's why they look away- they can't face your sacrifice for their safety. Who are the ones that can look at you?"

She thinks about it. "Parvati. Ginny, Neville, Seamus. The professors, my friends who were-" Her voice fails. She forces it to work. "There. My friends who were there." She looks at Bill, pleading for something to make sense.

Bill remains silent as he thinks about this. He finishes his tea and Fleur, who must've had a sixth sense, reappears with another cup. Lavender watches as Bill turns to smile at Fleur in appreciation. The light throws his face into sharp relief, and the dark voice in her heart says that his scars are nowhere near as bad as her own.

"You said it yourself, Lavender. These are the people who were there too," Bill says ruminatively. "People who also sacrificed something, and are probably going through the same thing you are."

She makes a small noise of dissent here, and he smiles apologetically. "Well, maybe not quite the same thing. True, they don't have the physical aspect of it. But you'll find that it's still quite the same." He sees that she doesn't agree, so he makes a suggestion.

"You should talk to Harry. I think he'll be able to help."

Lavender nods agreeably. Inside, she seethes at his dismissal. At the door, she unconsciously holds out her left hand (even though she's right handed, but it kind of _hurts_to look at that one now) and they shake. "Thanks," she says, forcing her voice to remain light.

Bill's long red hair wafts across his face, and she's struck by how attractive he _still _is. Whereas Fenrir Grayback had destroyed her beauty, he had only amplified Bill's. She thinks this, and bleak fury blinds her momentarily- for a moment, she has this overwhelming urge to attack the man before her, tear his flesh for daring to stand there, whole, happy, she wants to bite…

The sound of Bill's voice pulls her out of the red-hazed trance. Shaken, she stares at him, realizes that he's saying something.

"I have to go," she blurts out, throwing herself into a twist. When she rematerializes into her living room, she's laid sprawled out on the cool wooden floor. Her limbs have turned into water- she can't move, she can't think. She just closes her eyes and criescriescries.

Eventually, Parvati stops by to find Lavender nearly choking from grief. She helps her up and to the bathroom, and she's even nice enough to hold Lavender's hair back for her as she empties her stomach.

"I'm scared," Lavender admits later. She and Parvati are sprawled out on Padma's striped orange and purple couch, watching Bela Lugosi snack on Lucy Westenra.

"Of what?" Parvati asks, eyes glued to the screen, but Lavender sees her tense up.

She tries to put her at ease. "Of this couch," she jokes. "What was Padma thinking?"

It works. Parvati relaxes and cracks a smile. "Ravenclaw destroyed her fashion sense forever. But really, what's up?" She pushes the mute button on the remote with a red nail, and turns to face her.

Lavender looks down at her hands. The purple nail polish is faded and chipped- she hasn't bothered to repaint them since the battle. "The other day," she says slowly, feeling as if she's confessing a dark, deep secret, "when I was talking to Bill Weasley. There was a moment when I felt like… _attacking _him or something." She risks a glance at Parvati, whose expression is hidden behind a layer of makeup. This, Lavender knows, is her best friend's thinking face, so she subsides and waits patiently.

It doesn't take too long. "Is it because you felt jealous?" Parvati asks, watching Lavender closely.

She shakes her head. "I think that triggered it, but…" She stares at the glowing screen. Muted blacks, whites, and all the shades of gray in between wash over her dry, aching eyes. The pressure builds and she closes her eyes, shuddering. "I'm not a werewolf," she whispers.

Parvati doesn't say anything, just hugs her. The two women (girls) watch the rest of the movie in silence.

* * *

III.

She's not a werewolf, the St. Mungo healers assure her. Her blood's just been contaminated by the severe bites from Greyback, made worse for the closeness to the full moon at the time of the attack. "You'll find a few changes, but there shouldn't be anything debilitating," they tell her, and she wants to bite them too.

She shuts herself in her flat after that, refusing to let in anybody.

"Lavender, open this door," Parvati demands. At the moment, Lavender is reclining on her sofa and listening to the wards scream a warning that somebody's trying to Apparate in.

"It won't work," she calls out tiredly to her best friend, who pauses momentarily in her dedication to break the door down. "I've put up wards, Parvati. I just… need to be alone."

There is hesitation in the other girl's voice. "Are you… you'll be alright?" she finally asks.

Lavender can't really muster the strength to reply, so she just nods listlessly, letting her head thunk against the sofa. Parvati can't hear her, but she understands and leaves.

She spends the next few weeks lying around, ordering takeout and watching movies, and trying to think about things. More often than not, she ends up in front of a mirror, staring at her ravaged face with its gouges and discolorations from the healing tissue. It disorients her more than anything because she remembers a time when she expected to see a perfectly made up face with bright eyes and glossy hair.

Those kinds of expectations remain, always lingering in the back of her mind, always pushed to the front with the shock that a reflective surface brings.

She's close to rethinking her promise to Parvati that she'd be alright when one day, the door bursts into flame. It shocks her out of her pitiful stupor and she yelps, scrambling backwards in fright. Her back collides with the kitchenette counter, and for a moment, she can't breathe as the pain from healing wounds shoots to her brain.

"Zere, zere," an unfamiliar, feminine voice reaches her ears. "Just breathe." Careful hands help her up and onto the sofa that is faintly smoking.

When Lavender's somewhat recovered, she takes a moment to study the intruder and her brain finally kicks in. "Fleur Delacour," she says blankly.

"Eet's Weasley now," the beautiful blonde woman corrects her haughtily.

Lavender instantly feels a rush of dislike. "Why did you burn down my door?" she demands flatly. "And for that matter, how? I put wards on that."

"You didn't ward eet against fire," Fleur informs her conversationally. "You assumed people would only attempt to break ze door down, not set eet on fire. Fortunately, I am creative."

Lavender rolls her eyes. _And French_. "Why are you here?" she asks bluntly, figuring there's no need to be polite to somebody who nearly set her flat on fire, especially someone as unfairly beautiful as Fleur. Wasn't she part-Veela or something? That bitch.

"You are doing yourself no favors, cherie," Fleur says earnestly. "I understand. You were beautiful. You still are."

Lavender curls her hands into fists, ignoring how much less effective that is with missing fingers. "No, I'm not," she says, and all the bitterness is rising up and she can't keep her tone light anymore. "I'm ugly, I look like something out of a Saw movie, and I can't make myself think any better of it."

Fleur shakes her magnificent head and makes a rude noise. "If eet eez zat important to you, _make _yourself beautiful." She captures Lavender's hands and holds them tightly, forcing them to stop twisting into pretzels. "Beauty is not a perfect face. You know zis!"

Lavender scoffs. "Oh, please. I outgrew all that inner beauty crap years ago."

Fleur studies her and doesn't say anything. Lavender boldly meets her condescending stare, trying not to show the slight shame boiling beneath her skin.

The French witch stalks out the doorway soon after, and Lavender is left staring at the smoking pile of wood that used to be a heavily warded door.

"Lavender?" a new voice startles her. She raises her eyes to meet the shocking green that belongs unmistakably to Harry Potter. They stare awkwardly for a while, until he clears his throat. "Er, can I come in?" His voice strangely echoes.

"Sure," she says, studying him closely. He doesn't look too different than when he'd shown up in the Room of Requirement, grim and exhausted. It surprises her because she thought he'd have looked happier.

He gives her a sharp look, and she realizes with some shame that she said it aloud.

"Sorry," she apologizes.

"It's alright," Harry says slowly, as if it's tiring just to talk. "It's true, anyway. It's surprisingly hard for anybody to be happy right now."

Lavender snorts at that. "Yes, like those people dancing in the street right outside my window."

Harry quirks a mirthless smile. "Not them. They didn't have to pay for it."

She considers this, and in between thinking it sounds appropriately tragic-hero, she remembers Bill Weasley saying something similar.

As if he knows what she's thinking, his smile turns embarrassed. "I heard you weren't doing well, so I thought-"

"I'm doing fine," she interrupts, her voice ringing oddly loud in her ears. "Who told you that?"

He seems taken aback by her ferociousness, but then his features harden and she is reminded that this is the man who killed Voldemort. "The thing I've learned about bitterness is," he says, "that it's a choice." He seems to tower now, his own grief apparent to her now. He stares implacably down at her, and she flinches. "You can choose to give Greyback his victory and let him ruin your life, or you can at least try to move on," he says almost ruthlessly, ignoring her suddenly lethal glare. "I'm not much for philosophizing, Lavender, but it's obvious even to me that you're acting like a coward. I know you can do better."

She looks at her damaged hands and tries not to sob. "How?"

He doesn't answer and a passing breeze indicates that he's left. She fists her hands against her eyes as she cries for the umpteenth time, and so doesn't see Harry reappear until something silky flops onto her face.

Half-yelling with shock, she scrabbles against it and pulls it off. It's one of her dresses, her favorite, the little black one that she and Parvati had both bought with a promise to match on an important day.

"Mrs. Weasley's having a get together for all the Order and DA members tonight," Harry says, a little red in the face, probably from going through her clothes. "You're going to come, and you'll wear that."

She blinks. "I can't wear this," she says automatically.

"Why not?"

_I don't know, maybe because it's backless, strapless, and the shortest thing I own. _"Because Parvati and I promised to wear this on a really important day."

She can tell he's trying hard not to roll his eyes. "Well, I'd qualify this as a very important day, wouldn't you?" He scowls at her, but his eyes are kind. "I'll Imperio you if I have to, Lavender," he warns.

She manages a weak smile. "You wouldn't." She knows him well enough for that.

"No," he admits. "But I can get Parvati to do it for me."

That's as valid a threat as he could've made. "Fine," she agrees. Harry gives her a quick smile, and when the awkwardness begins to build, makes a hasty retreat. Once he's left, Lavender sends a Patronus message to her best friend. She hasn't managed the spell in a while, but she thinks of the day they'd bought the two matching dresses and it seems appropriate.

Parvati arrives in the few minutes it takes for Lavender to wonder if Harry had prepared that speech (maybe he'd gotten it from Granger?) and Lavender unwittingly begins to tear up when she sees that her sworn sister has already brought her own copy of the dress.

"I knew I'd need it," Parvati shrugs in reply to her inquiring look. "Now get up and take a shower, we only have three hours to get ready."

Lavender laughs shakily, wipes her tears away, and goes to take a shower.

The dress is tiny and bares more skin than Lavender is comfortable with, even before Greyback. It leaves her back, legs, and shoulders completely free for inspection. Scarred and disfigured skin shines almost brightly when she looks in the mirror, and she feels almost sick with fear.

Parvati arranges the last blonde curl and meets her eyes in the glass. "You're a Gryffindor," she reminds her. "The Hat's never wrong. You can do this."

When they've Apparated to the Burrow, she suddenly feels grateful to Harry for picking this party. It's homely and comfortable and warm, and she doesn't mind the stares nearly as much as she thought she would.

She summons all her Gryffindor bravery, takes a deep breath, and follows Parvati through the doorway. There's a bit of a hush when people see her, but conversation quickly restarts and they give her a sympathizing smile. She doesn't like sympathy, but it's much better than pity and it's a start.

* * *

IV.

It's not as quick as she'd have liked, but she begins to reconnect with everything she thought she'd lost, above all beauty. She goes shopping in high end boutiques with Parvati, and almost appreciates the awkward looks of shock and wonder on the clerks' faces. They make a striking pair, she knows, with their contrasting skin and hair, so striking in different ways.

But after a while it works for them, and they slowly adapt their wardrobes to similarly revealing outfits as that little black one, which had done its job well and now hangs enshrined in the back of their closets. Parvati says it's to be brought out only for emergencies now, and Lavender agrees even though she kind of really loves it and wants to wear it every day.

Her sort of new life is brought into focus when a modeling agent approaches her one night at a Ministry party that Parvati had brought her along to. She's wearing a sweeping lavender ball gown this time, and while it's not as revealing as her standards these days, it's still backless and it makes her feel like she's wearing her scars as badges of honor rather than the way they'd worn her as a blemish of shame so long ago. See, she has this thing about letting people only see what she wants them to, and now she _wants _them to see her, all of her, how she's changed and how proud she's learned to become of it now.

It's been six and a half years since that awful night, and tears casually present themselves like they did then, but this time it's for another reason as the agent tells her that she's the most _beautiful _woman he's ever seen and would she like to become a model for one of the most prolific magazines in Europe?

She reaches her fingerless hand out to shake his and tells him quite calmly that it would be her pleasure.


End file.
